


Rebel Rebel (You've Torn Your Dress)

by Nympha_Alba



Category: Merlin (TV) RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-20
Updated: 2011-04-20
Packaged: 2017-10-18 10:37:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,904
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/188076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nympha_Alba/pseuds/Nympha_Alba
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The knowledge that Colin is in London makes Bradley jittery and unfocused, and he's <i>never</i> unfocused so he doesn't know what this is all about.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a sequel of sorts to Lamardeuse's absolutely lovely, slightly cracky AU fic [Stanislavsky Never Said Anything About Frocks](http://archiveofourown.org/works/71662?view_adult=true) (rated Explicit), that you should read before reading this. (Well, you should read it even if you're _not_ reading this!) In her fic, Bradley and Colin meet when Colin, still a drama student, comes to London to audition at the Young Vic.

_Well, that's the thing about luck: you don't question it._  
Lois Lane in _Lois and Clark_

 

Bradley wakes as light filters in around the curtains and gives the room its shape back. He lies still a while to let himself surface, wondering how long he's slept, if it's morning yet, how far into the morning. A headache is pulsing slowly in his temples and his neck's at a weird angle because someone's in his bed, sharing the pillow so he can't punch it into shape.

The memory of last night is only a few hours old – of Colin kneeling on the floor before him and giggling hysterically into his thigh... of that stupidly gorgeous mouth and the long fingers skimming over Bradley's ribs... of Bradley's own desperate gasps as he comes undone, shaken apart as much by the look on Colin's face as by his thrusts. And Colin is still here, warm and asleep in Bradley's bed, and this morning already holds several kinds of wonders.

If Bradley squints, the world is narrowed down to pale skin and soft shadows, the diagonal line of a taut tendon down the side of the neck, the hollow above the collarbone.

And glitter. Quite a lot of glitter, liberally rubbed onto the pillow and dusted over Colin's white skin, some stuck to his dark hair like a miniature night sky. Bradley lets out an amused breath. The David Bowie of 1973 on the wall above them must approve whole-heartedly.

He inches closer to slide a gentle hand over Colin's stomach and touch his lips to the crook of the neck. Colin murmurs something in his sleep and his head turns on the pillow before he jerks awake and shoots upright.

"Hey," Bradley says, holding him back with an arm across his midriff and trying to sound soothing. "Don't panic. It's only me."

"God," Colin mutters, his voice thick with sleep. He flops back on the pillow and rubs at his face with his palm, at his eye with one finger. "Sorry. I think I was dreaming. I didn't..." He glances sideways at Bradley and a pink spot appears on top of each chiselled cheekbone, spreading slowly as yesterday unfurls in his mind. "Um... about last night."

He hesitates and Bradley thinks _oh, no, no, don't take it back, don't take anything back. Please._

"I didn't..." Colin's voice trails off and he tries again. "I didn't do anything I need to apologise for, did I...?"

He sounds like he genuinely isn't sure, and there's warmth in Bradley's stomach, a mad wish to laugh, but it doesn't do to laugh, not now. So Bradley only smiles and shakes his head, whispers "no" against the warm skin on Colin's neck and feels an answering shiver down Colin's body. "Did you see me shrink away in horror?"

That gets a small laugh through the nose. "Not exactly, no." Colin's vowels are sending sparks of delight along Bradley's nerves. "So... there's nothing to be ashamed of, then?"

If Bradley hadn't already been hard, he'd definitely have been by the time the last diphthong has twisted and stretched itself over Colin's lips. He wants to eat those sounds right off the obscenely pretty mouth.

It's not as if Bradley found himself riding Colin's cock last night by accident, or against his will -- he honestly doesn't understand why Colin needs reassurance. But perhaps it's a natural reaction for a boy who's just found he's about as straight as the road through the Stelvio pass.

Bradley is a little muzzy with the closeness and the strength of his own lust, with the smell of Colin's skin and of the two of them together, and he licks at Colin's neck, making a path through the glitter. It tastes a little dusty and weird and you can probably die from eating little metal bits like that, but when there's a hitch in Colin's breath and he squirms under the wet touch, Bradley thinks _well, at least I'll die happy_.

He slides his face along the sharp collarbone and down to rub his mouth over a nipple, close-lipped and tentative at first, then with teeth and tongue. God, the _sounds_ coming from Colin; quick shallow breaths and half-whispered words, barely there and still touching the base of Bradley's spine like something tangible.

Last night the room was dark and now Bradley wants to see, so he pushes the too-warm duvet aside and there's Colin's pale, lean body, all the long unbroken lines of him, dark hair and white skin, the flush of his erection. A glistening drop at the tip of his cock is connected to the skin on his stomach by a fine, silvery gossamer thread that makes Bradley's mouth water. He catches the thread on his tongue, catches the drop, slides his lips over and around the head. Above him, Colin gasps. One hand is twisting into the bedsheet while the other comes into Bradley's hair, gentle and slow and uncertain, summing up the contradictions he can sense in Colin.

Then there's the heavy slide of Colin's cock over his tongue, and the moment when he reaches up to stroke the incredibly silky skin just behind the balls, and Colin's groan at the touch followed by a warning of "no, I'm going to -- " that Bradley doesn't heed, and then Colin arches and tenses and muffles his cry with his knuckles.

When Bradley reaches blindly for his own cock Colin won't let him; pulls him up and catches his mouth and breathes _no, wait, come here, let me, I want you to come all over me_ , and Bradley props himself up on an elbow as Colin's hand wraps around his cock. It's a little too hard and a little too fast and still really kind of incredible, and Bradley wants to watch Colin's face with the red-bitten mouth and dark, heavy eyes forever but this is going to end much too soon, and when Colin reaches up and bites Bradley's lower lip he screws his eyes shut and comes all over Colin's stomach and chest.

They look at each other for a few long seconds after, and Bradley wants to keep the soft, dazed amazement in Colin's face stashed away inside him like a treasure for years to come. He wants to remember the way Colin looks when he glances down at himself and runs his fingertips through the wet mess like finger paint.

When Bradley's fetched an old t-shirt for them to clean themselves up with, Colin ruffles his hair and releases a cloud of little metal flakes, still there from yesterday. They're never going to get rid of them.

"It's raining glitter," Colin points out.

"Hallelujah," Bradley adds, mesmerised by the appearance of Colin's dimples. He touches the one in the right cheek, then the one in the left, and Colin's eyes follow his hand as if this is a medical examination, so Bradley touches a fingertip to the bridge of Colin's nose just to see the blue eyes cross. Even when Colin is ridiculous, he's too pretty for words. Bradley leans down and runs his tongue along a prominent cheekbone; Colin shoves him away.

"Ugh. You're licking my _face_."

"I've licked pretty much every other part of you," Bradley murmurs, "and it's not as if you objected to _that_."

Colin smiles at that, a small private smile that turns up the corners of his mouth and leaves Bradley defenceless, and then they're _looking_ at each other sort of breathlessly before Colin's hand alights on the side of Bradley's neck. The kiss is slow and deep and sincere, and Bradley sinks into it, closes his eyes and feels Colin's fingers curl around the back of his neck, the thumb brushing Bradley's earlobe over and over. There's a sweetness to it that makes his head swim, as if Colin is silently telling him something that perhaps there are no words for, not yet.

When they part, mouths glistening, Bradley's heart is thundering in his ears and he trembles with something he's afraid to name.

*

 

They're having breakfast in the kitchen when Malcolm appears, heavy-eyed but vocal, loudly sharing his amused opinion about the un-slept-on state of the sofa and about Bradley and Colin sitting so close that their elbows and knees are touching.

Bradley genuinely doesn't care what Malcolm knows or doesn't, or what he thinks, but he throws a glance at Colin, worried that _he'll_ care; care too much. But Colin only tilts his chin up to give Malcolm a semi-smirk and breathe "jealous?". Oddly, Malcolm's mouth snaps shut and he takes his tea away with him without another word.

Bradley and Colin look at each other, wide-eyed, trying not to laugh.

Later, when they run lines on the sofa with their feet on the coffee-table as rain streaks the windows, Bradley begins to falter. He knows his own worth as an actor, but even now that Colin isn't even really putting much effort into it, Bradley can see the edge to him, the bright sharp shining edge that signals something quite out of the ordinary. When Colin said he'd be auditioning at the Young Vic, Bradley had thought oh, yeah, _right_ , the boy isn't even out of drama school. He wants to test the waters, but he'll be disappointed. After half an hour of feeding Colin lines, Bradley decides the Young Vic are complete idiots if Colin doesn't get the part. He can't even put his finger on it. There's an electricity about Colin's acting, a raw, nerve-fraying intensity that's apparent even now that he isn't really trying. It simmers below the surface and is exposed in short, sharp glimpses. Using the smallest means possible, Colin gives his character a depth and complexity that literally steals Bradley's breath away.

When Bradley acts, he's always present in his character, never loses himself in it. Part of him observes, directs, judges his own performance and nudges it in another direction if needed. Colin seems to slip sideways out of himself and into the other person. After another half-hour Bradley is shaken and exhausted and holds an unhealthy amount of respect for the tall, lanky boy sprawling awkwardly on his sofa.

They're done now, both of them strung out and quiet. Colin throws his script on the table and his face is half turned away, eyes closed, the thick dark lashes fanning over the pale skin. Something unholy moves in Bradley.

He thinks of yesterday, of his thumbs pressing into Colin's neck on either side of the spine, the muffled moan of relief as the headache dispersed, how it had moved him. As soon as he'd opened the door to Colin that afternoon and seen the pale, twitchy kid with dark shadows under his eyes, Bradley had known there was something there, something he wanted, something he -– absurdly -– needed. Like it had promised to fill a space within him he'd never really known was there.

 _I can't be this far gone_ , he thinks. _Not after twenty-four hours._

Colin turns his head then and looks at Bradley. His eyes are wide and very blue in the grey light of the rainy afternoon.

"Fuck, I'm scared," he says.

Bradley's fingers move without permission, running through the surprising softness of Colin's scruffy beard, following the jawbone to the ear and stroking the silky spot below it.

"Morgan," he says as Colin's eyes darken, "you're bloody _fantastic_."

The corners of the pretty mouth quirk upwards -– a mere two millimetres, but enough to make Bradley's world cave in on him. God, he can't let Colin go.

"I was talking about _acting_ ," Colin says pointedly.

It takes a fraction of a second for that to sink in, and then Bradley throws his head back and laughs. When he stops, Colin is smiling too, mouth and eyes. There's a tiny speck of glitter on his cheek and Bradley doesn't tell him. It sits there like a minuscule piece of evidence that this is not a dream.

"If you don't get the part," Bradley says, "they're complete fucking _idiots_ at the Young Vic, or at least deaf and blind." He jumps up from the sofa to stretch his arms towards the ceiling, physically restless after half a day spent lazing around. "I'm hungry," he declares. "Indian okay?"

*

 

As the day trickles away, Colin grows distant. He stops talking and turns tetchy and irritable. His hands seem numb and his trembling fingers make him drop things or knock them over. Bradley picks them up, laughs and pulls Colin away with an arm hooked around his neck, hard. Colin grinds his teeth and says nothing.

In the dark of Bradley's room that evening, they move silently, frantically against each other, one of them wanting to shut out emotions and the other to stop them leaving ever again.

Colin's mouth opens against Bradley's shoulder as he comes, shuddering through his orgasm. Two hard strokes and Bradley follows him, with Colin's hair in his mouth and white pleasure bursting behind his eyelids.

*

 

A window across the street reflects the sun and sends razor sharp light into the kitchen. Bradley holds out a piece of warm toast to Colin, who shakes his head and looks like he's going to throw up.

At the door, later, Colin is hunched into his hoodie, bag slung over his shoulder and hair falling into his face. He's eyes and bone, fragile, electric, making something in Bradley's chest clutch and claw.

Malcolm is large and booming and all heavy, blokey hands on shoulders, and when he leaves there's only silence and Bradley and Colin, scared. Bradley does the only thing he can think of and pulls Colin into a kiss, catching Colin's upper lip between his. The beautiful mouth is unresponsive until he nudges it with his tongue, and then Colin's eyes flutter closed and he inhales audibly through his nose, sucking Bradley's bottom lip into his mouth for two seconds before pulling back.

"Must go," he mumbles, not looking up.

"Call me," Bradley says. "Or text me. Tell me how you did."

Colin just nods, already halfway down the stairs.

 _I know you'll get it_ , Bradley wants to call after him and doesn't. Instead he lingers in the doorway for several numb minutes with his arms wound tightly around himself as protection against god knows what.

*

 

Colin doesn't call. Doesn't text, either. After a week of waiting like an idiot, Bradley gives in and texts him. It's a perfectly neutral question about the audition, nothing about the hurt or want or desperation or any of all the other things he wants to say or ask.

There's no reply.

It's Malcolm who eventually tells Bradley that Colin got the part.

*

 

The knowledge that Colin is in London makes Bradley jittery and unfocused, and he's _never_ unfocused so he doesn't know what this is all about. Nothing ever throws him; hardly anything makes him nervous. Auditions, challenges, bets, football matches, he lives and breathes them. But somewhere in this huge, milling city there's a young, brilliant actor on a theatre stage, only taking up the minute space needed to accommodate his narrow frame, but still taking up an unreasonable amount of space inside Bradley's head. The world is breaking up and rearranging itself, and somehow Colin is haunting every corner of Bradley's mind.

There's no contact, no replies. Bradley has texted Colin twice after the initial message, but Colin never says anything at all, not even fuck off.

Bradley doesn't usually imagine things when he's off stage, but obviously the connection he felt with Colin was a product of his imagination; the way things had slotted into place inside him when Colin had caught his wrist and stroked the pulse point with his thumb. _Something this strong must be mutual_ , Bradley had thought, and it's astonishingly painful to find he's been mistaken.

The sun is brighter and the days are longer, and there's nowhere to hide. Bradley had no idea spring could be so relentless.

 

*

 

 _Colin Morgan makes an impressive debut as Vernon, surrounded by grotesques._  
Susannah Clapp, _The Guardian_

 _Colin Morgan, still at drama school and making a sensational professional stage debut, captures all the vulnerability, confusion and gallows humour of the adolescent hero who finds himself in no end of trouble, before making the happier discovery that trouble is the one sure way of getting girls. By the end you feel like cheering him on to a happy ending._  
Charles Spencer, _The Telegraph_

 _Full of restless energy and youthful charisma from start to finish, Morgan is an absolute delight and carries the weight of the production on his shoulders with ease and a certain swagger, in what is his major stage debut._  
Alistair Smith, _The Stage_

 _Colin Morgan, who has not even graduated from drama school and takes the title role in a stage debut of dazzling conviction, inhabits this limbo world. He is by turns phlegmatic and cynical, disparaging and disconsolate, even defiantly dancing at death's door._  
Nicholas de Jongh, _This is London_

 _This is of course Colin Morgan's play. Not due to graduate from drama school until this July, his wide eyed schoolboy Vernon credibly drives the play's events. He has that hapless air of a piece of flotsam in jeans and trainers, swept along by episodes which are increasingly more bizarre._  
Lizzie Loveridge, _Curtain Up_

 _Colin Morgan's Vernon belies his relative inexperience. Even if you can see Norris' directorial hand moulding his youthful enthusiasm at moments, it is still an exceptional achievement to hold the dramatic centre of the piece with such aplomb._  
Hugh Chapman, _london se1_

 _Morgan (who has yet to graduate from drama school) gives a remarkably assured performance and manages his role as the dramatic centre of the piece with terrifying aplomb in one so young._  
Phil and Andrew, _Westendwhingers_

 

Bradley reads everything he can find. Then he hastily closes his laptop and pushes his chair back, steps over the puddle of tea soaking into the carpet after he knocked the mug over, and barely makes it to the bathroom before he throws up, shaking and sweating as he kneels on the tiles.

Gut-punched, betrayed.

 _Betrayed? What the fuck, what the FUCK, James._

Colin Morgan is a drama school kid who happened to fall into bed with Bradley one night and that kind of thing happens, it happens all the time.

Until it doesn't.


	2. Part 2

"Morgan's fucking _brilliant_ in it," Malcolm states, vicariously living the glory. "You've got to see it. You've got to see him on stage."

And of course Bradley does. He sits in the dusty darkness in a seat used by too many people with his feet on a floor scuffed by too many boots. He loves the theatre like nothing else in the world, loves the immediacy, how every performance is a two-way communication, a shared experience. Bradley's experience tonight is shared with everyone in the theatre, and with no one. He props his elbow on the armrest and covers his mouth with his hand, glancing up at the stage with caution, because Colin shines so brightly Bradley can't look at him full on.

*

 

Colin, or his absence, turns out to be good for Bradley's physical health. To get away from the confusion and his own thoughts, he runs, runs. Frequently. Long distances.

A friend introduces him to a girl, and he likes her. Her name is Helena and her eyes are brown and look nothing like Colin's. This, Bradley feels, is a very good thing. She likes him back, so much that he's afraid he'll hurt her. This is the only thing about her that frightens him.

He feels like a bit of an arse, or a complete arse sometimes. But if they like each other - and they do – where's the harm, really? At least they're not alone.

Helena likes Hugh Grant and they lounge on the sofa watching _Notting Hill_ , Bradley's head in Helena's lap and her fingers in his hair, down the side of his neck. She laughs at Spike while Bradley notices the pearl rope of small brilliant things that Julian Rhind-Tutt does with his character.

Some days later, when Bradley has gone to bed (alone), a stupid line from the stupid film pops up in his head. Obviously it's been lurking there, waiting to surprise him with all the force of a cliché applied to his life and found to be spot on: "It's like I had love heroin and now I can't ever have it again."

 _Oh god_ , Bradley thinks, _pushing his fingers into his hair and scrunching up his eyes, this isn't happening to me, it just isn't. I'm a walking, living, breathing cliché straight out of a nineties romcom._

He opens his eyes to look up at David Bowie looming over him in the near-dark, imagining David pointing a long finger at him and threatening, in a booming voice, to throw him into the bog of eternal stench.

 _But I'm there already_ , Bradley thinks half hysterically, _I'm in the bog of eternal stinking self-pity and unrequited love, crouching in the marshes like Gollum._

Oh, this is great, this is wonderful, this is fucking _epic_ – he gets to be both Gollum and Hugh Grant, all on the same day. He's laughing out loud now and doesn't stop until Malcolm thumps the wall and tells him to shut the fuck up.

Bradley turns his face into the pillow, weak with laughter. The whole thing is so insane. He's never been like this before, not over anyone. Everything with Colin is a first. Bradley has never before reached the stage where only one person in the universe means anything.

And as far as that person's concerned, Bradley doesn't exist.

It doesn't occur to him until the next morning that Helena didn't even surface into this internal discussion, not once.

*

 

On New Year's Eve, when Bradley is more than halfway to being pissed and has already laughed and shouted far too much and too loudly, his phone buzzes with a text from Colin. He freezes and fumbles, mutters something and runs to lock himself in the bathroom. His hands are trembling when he opens the message.

It reads: YSTRnn GFBAIWHF NWW RA.

It could possibly be Irish, or maybe Welsh, but Bradley doesn't know if Colin speaks either of those languages and it's a qualified guess that Colin's message is in Drunk.

Bradley leans weakly against the wall, laughing both out of disappointment and relief, and decides not to reply. Colin won't remember this tomorrow anyway, and when he find the message in his Sent box he'll be embarrassed.

At the strike of midnight Helena melts into Bradley's arms, and under all the noise she looks up at him with fireworks reflected in her eyes and says "I love you" against his mouth. Unable to reply, Bradley pulls her into another kiss.

*

 

Thankfully, this is the year that decides to send work Bradley's way, and he throws himself into it like an enthusiastic golden retriever puppy, all energy and leaps and bounds. Having to learn boxing is a godsend. Jab jab jab jab, and his frustration has somewhere good to go.

He loves being on set, loves the giving and taking and finding out who his character is, but somehow he doesn't connect with people, and this is not a problem he's ever had before. Usually he spends ten minutes in someone's company and the connection is there, one way or another, in a joke, a look, _some_ piece of common ground. But now Colin gets in the way. Once inside Bradley's life and his head, he stays put, refusing to leave. Perhaps he's not always actively present and sometimes lets himself be ignored, but he's always indisputably _there_ , like the telly on in the next room. Now and then Bradley thinks he may actually be going out of his mind.

And while he is plodding along, Colin Morgan seems to be moving from one triumph to the next.

*

 

 _That leaves Colin Morgan, horrifyingly realistic as Jimmy, a Latino junkie heading for an early grave but filled with weird inexplicable charm and courage.  
...  
If anything, in great company, Colin Morgan creates the richest character, following up the positive impression that he made in a similar role at the same theatre in _Vernon God Little.  
Peter Lathan, _The British Theatre Guide_

 

 _Jimmy is described as a punk with the face of an angel. Add to this mix of personalities, Sean's attraction to men and Jimmy's willingness to prostitute himself, and the sexuality sub plots abound.  
…  
Colin Morgan, the drama college student discovery as _Vernon God Little _, in another absorbing performance narrows his eyes and pitches his voice in a whine and shakes like a junkie needing a fix._  
Lizzie Loveridge, _Curtain Up_

 

 _Rising star Colin Morgan has had a phenomenal year. The young actor was still in drama school when he was cast by director Rufus Norris to make his professional debut in the title role of last year's premiere page-to-stage adaptation of DBC Pierre's Booker Prize winner_ Vernon God Little _at theYoung Vic._

 _Morgan immediately followed that up with another adaptation, across the road at the Old Vic, in Samuel Adamson's screen crossover of Pedro Almodovar's Oscar-winning Spanish film_ All About My Mother _, in which he played Esteban, son to Lesley Manville, in a cast that also featured Dame Diana Rigg and Mark Gatiss. For those two performances, he has been nominated for Newcomer of the Year in this year's Whatsonstage.com Theatregoers' Choice Awards._

 _Offstage, Morgan has managed to find the time for filming an episode of_ Doctor Who _and to appear on TV in_ Catherine Tate's Christmas Special _._

 _The actor now returns to the Young Vic to star alongside Sean Chapman, Corey Johnson and Matthew Marsh in the first major London revival of_ A Prayer for My Daughter _._

 _Favourite after-show haunts  
Colin Morgan: I normally just go to wherever is closest. When I'm at the Young Vic, I really like the Windmill, which is right next door._  
Kate Jackson, _whatsonstage.com_

 

This time Bradley doesn't throw up. He just shuts the laptop down, closes his eyes and tries to get rid of the image of Colin as Jimmy Rosario that's burned itself onto his retinas – the gorgeously sculpted face, so familiar and yet somehow unrecognisable.

 _I'm definitely, definitely not going to the Windmill_ , Bradley thinks. _Ever_.

He does, however, go the Young Vic. Once again he sits in the dusty darkness, looking sideways at the stage where Colin is raw and real and destroyed, naked body and bared, twisted soul. Bradley swallows at the exposed white skin, closes his eyes against the gun in Colin's hand, swallows again around the memories, all those stupid memories that he's gone over in his mind and re-lived second by second until they play effortlessly in his head like a favourite film. The reality of here and now mixes with the reality of then and with the fake reality on stage until he's dizzy and can't distinguish one from the other.

Even with narrowed eyes and sideburns, Colin is so beautiful it hurts. Fucked-up apparently suits him. Like that day when he arrived at the flat, getting pissed off with Bradley within two minutes and then crashing on his bed. He's equally mesmerising when fucked-up on stage, squinting and twitching, vulnerable and still untouchable, every nerve laid bare.

Fucked-up doesn't suit Bradley at all, he knows this too well, having seen the evidence lately. There are dark circles under his eyes, his skin is dull and breaks out in spots and it feels like the last time he was happy was with Colin heavy on top of him, biting his shoulder and coming all over him. He wouldn't want Colin to see him like this; he's glad Colin doesn't know he's in the audience, that he can't see Bradley in the dark, hiding pathetically in plain sight.

Bradley can't remember crying anything but actor's tears in years, but his face is wet. He isn't sure what the tears are for or even if they're genuine. How can you possibly know, here in the complex strata of lies, pretence, reality levels, truths and fake that makes a theatre a theatre and a play a play?

 _Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player, that struts and frets his hour upon the stage, and then is heard no more…_

 _Bad luck, James_ , Bradley thinks and closes his fingers around the armrest. _Bad, bad luck_.

But apparently he has some sense of self-preservation left, because he doesn't go to the Windmill.

*

 

Somewhere along the line he's lost himself. Something needs to happen. Helena is out of the picture, hurt like Bradley knew she'd be. There's no point hating himself for it but he does anyway.

That's when Colin as Jethro enters Bradley's world and shakes it to pieces all over again, so goddamn fucking gorgeous that Bradley wants to punch something just to hear it break.

He watches Colin's video diary on YouTube, Colin with a cold, with a fantastic bedhead, with the accent that's enough to drive Bradley insane. And on set, in profile, with a radiant, angelic smile that is simply the most beautiful thing Bradley has ever seen.

 _I know what I like_ , he had whispered between kisses that night when Colin had unexpectedly ended up in his bed. He had sounded so sure of himself, _been_ so sure of his own words. But since then everything has fallen apart around him the way things can only fall apart when you know what you want and can't have it.

*

 

Malcolm's parties are always good. The flat is packed with people and Bradley loves it when it is. He's already a little drunk, weaving his way through the crowd chatting, laughing, ignoring the image of Colin that is always there in his head, half superimposed on every other impression. Over by the fireplace a group of people are discussing Smallville and there's already a red wine stain on the rug.

Bradley's in the kitchen doing a slow motion demonstration of his newly acquired punch, using a laughing Luke as a target, when someone says his name behind him and the world grinds to a halt.

"Bradley."

It's a voice and an accent he'd have known anywhere, and it feels like he's the one at the receiving end of the blow.

Luke talks to Michelle as Bradley slowly turns around, his heart a loud, erratic drumbeat in his ears, cold-hot claws scratching and clutching at the pit of his stomach.

Colin is standing in the doorway with his shoulder against the frame as though he's trying to look casual but really needs the support. Before Bradley can stop himself his eyes are wandering from the tumble of dark hair, over the prominent cheekbones and down the long, lean body.

This isn't Colin, he thinks in a haze; it's Jethro dressed as a woman, with Jethro's pale lips and black hair spilling all over the face, the long lashes made heavier with mascara and thick eyeliner giving the eyes an impossible depth and intensity. He's in a sleeveless black dress with black leather wound around his wrists, looking like Arclight's equally dangerous cousin who's already created his first shock wave. The effect of the dress is odd; Colin is all angles and bones with wide shoulders and absolutely no hips, but Bradley's mouth has gone dry at the sight and his palms are sweaty. When he realises his beer bottle is about to slide out of his hand he absently puts it down on the counter, not letting his eyes leave Colin.

Colin lifts his chin and watches Bradley watch him. Everything is syrupy slow like they're suspended in time before Bradley's hand whips out to catch Colin's wrist, slipping a little on the leather, fingertips touching the heel of Colin's hand. He's aware that his grip is too hard when he pulls Colin away with him, stumbling together into Bradley's room and closing the door, where Bradley shoves a chair under the handle to keep it fixed in lieu of a lock.

They're staring at each other, breathing hard, and Bradley's hands are itching with the need to touch, slap, punch, he isn't sure. He's so blazingly angry that his field of vision is jagged, and still wants to pull Colin close, kiss his breath away, fuck him senseless.

"What the _fuck_ are you doing here?"

It's not what he meant to say and it sounds ridiculous, but Colin winces as if he's been stung.

"Malcolm's a friend."

" _Malcolm_ is?" Bradley is choking with rage and hurt and something that tastes like tears. "And what am I?"

He realises Colin is shaking, the bony shoulders looking vulnerable in the artless dress, his eyes in shadow where the hair tumbles down over his face.

"What do you want to be?"

"Oh Jesus," Bradley gasps, laughing angrily. "This is so absurd."

And then Colin is very close, shaking against Bradley with the pretty Jethro mouth at his ear, mumbling incomprehensible things, and Bradley's arms slip around him on their own accord. The kiss is furious with pain and longing and all kinds of things that Bradley doesn't want to know about, and they struggle out of their clothes as they stagger towards the bed, Bradley tugging at the zipper of Colin's dress. Skin touches skin, the sensation crackling and sparkling along his spine; he smooths out goosebumps over Colin's ribs and raises new ones in the wake of his mouth. They're too frantic for anything but hands, and Bradley gets them both off so quickly it ought to be embarrassing but somehow isn't, somehow isn't anything but bloody wonderful and very, very messy.

" _This_ is what I want to be," Bradley says before they've even stopped panting.

Colin in nothing but leather thongs around his wrists and eyes heavy and smudged with make-up is the most gorgeously decadent thing, and Bradley leans over him, grinning down at the pretty face. Colin's eyes have lost their Arclight look from before and are soft and smiling, sending a stab of pure joy through Bradley's heart.

"Good," Colin murmurs. "That's good."

He pulls Bradley's head down to his chest, and Bradley lies listening to the rhythm of his heart slowing to normal while Colin runs his fingers through Bradley's hair over and over again and the party continues without them.

*

 

"Back then," Colin says in the morning light, "when you ran lines with me and I said I was shit scared, I wasn't only talking about acting. I almost wasn't talking about acting at all."

Then they don't talk about their misery any more, because there are so many glorious ways to blow every coherent thought out of their minds.

And Bradley doesn't know yet that he will star as Arthur along Colin's Merlin, or that two months into filming, Colin will push Bradley against the wall in a dark corridor and stare at him with a strange mixture of desperation, amazement and resignation, and breathe _god, Bradley, god, I love you_ , making Bradley weak and shiver-hot and happy. That is still in the future, but somehow he can already see the soft, golden haze of it shimmering on the horizon.

*

 

 _Rebel rebel, you've torn your dress  
Rebel rebel, your face is a mess  
Rebel rebel, how could they know  
Hot tramp, I love you so_

David Bowie, _Rebel Rebel_


End file.
